Uncle William: the man who was shif'less eBook

The artist entered the glowing room. Turkey-red
blazed at the windows and decorated the walls.
It ran along the line of shelves by the fire and covered
the big lounge. One stepped into the light of
it with a sudden sense of crude comfort.

The artist set his canvas carefully on a projecting
beam and looked about him, smiling. A cat leaped
down from the turkey-red lounge and came across, rubbing
his legs. He bent and stroked her absently.

She arched her back to his hand. Then, moving
from him with stately step, she approached the door,
looking back at him with calm, imperious gaze.

“All right, Juno,” he said. “He’ll
be along in a minute. Don’t you worry.”

She turned her back on him and, seating herself, began
to wash her face gravely and slowly.

The door opened with a puff, and she leaped forward,
dashing upon the big leg that entered and digging
her claws into it in ecstasy of welcome.

Uncle William, over the armful of wood, surveyed her
with shrewd eyes. He reached down a long arm
and, seizing her by the tail, swung her clear of his
path, landing her on the big lounge. With a purr
of satisfaction, she settled herself, kneading her
claws in its red softness.

He deposited the wood in the box and stood up.
His bluff, kind gaze swept the little room affectionately.
He took off the stove-lid and poked together the few
coals that glowed beneath. “That’s
all right,” he said. “She’ll
heat up quick.” He thrust in some light
sticks and pushed forward the kettle. “Now,
if you’ll reach into that box behind you and
get the potatoes,” he said, “I’ll
do the rest of the fixin’s.”

He removed his hat, and taking down a big oil-cloth
apron, checked red and black, tied it about his ample
waist. He reached up and drew from behind the
clock a pair of spectacles in steel bows. He adjusted
them to his blue eyes with a little frown. “They’re
a terrible bother,” he said, squinting through
them and readjusting them. “But I don’t
dare resk it without. I got hold of the pepper-box
last time. Thought it was the salt—­same
shape. The chowder was hot.”
He chuckled. “I can see a boat a mile off,”
he said, lifting the basket of clams to the sink, “but
a pepper-box two feet’s beyond me.”
He stood at the sink, rubbing the clams with slow,
thoughtful fingers. His big head, outlined against
the window, was not unlike the line of sea-coast that
stretched below, far as the eye could see, rough and
jagged. Tufts of hair framed his shining baldness
and tufts of beard embraced the chin, losing themselves
in the vast expanse of neckerchief knotted, sailor
fashion, about his throat.

Over the clams and the potatoes and the steaming kettles
he hovered with a kind of slow patience,—­in
a smaller man it would have been fussiness,—­and
when the fragrant chowder was done he dipped it out
with careful hand. The light had lessened, and
the little room, in spite of its ruddy glow, was growing
dark. Uncle William glanced toward the window.
Across the harbor a single star had come out.
“Time to set my light,” he said.
He lighted a ship’s lantern and placed it carefully
in the window.